On Satruday night I humored my 20-year-old housemates and went to a childish little apartment party at La Ville. It was worth it to see the smiles on their little faces as they spastically gyrated on the carpeted dance floor with their girlish, baby-faced companions. But I stuck out like a sore thumb, a man among boys. And men go to the bars.
What I needed was another nameless, faceless wing man.
So I contacted The Original Badass. This maniac had a reputation around town for civil disobedience. And he was a violent thrill-seeker.
And, wouldn’t you know it, he was stuck at another juvenile La Ville party on the ninth floor. I made my way to the elevator.
The Original Badass had newspaper connections at a YUPPY watering hole, Brickhouse Barbecue. The alumni had rented out the top floor for a highly-sophisticated soiree. There was sure to be top-shelf liquor and stimulating conversation. Finally a little culture! I was excited to rub elbows with professional journalists, agenda-setting gate keepers of information, just like me. I couldn’t wait to discuss cutting-edge techniques for spoon feeding information to the ignorant, drooling masses. How important our work is!
It was high time to leave the peasantry behind and do a little bourgeois schmoozing, so The Original Badass and I chugged what was left of an open bottle of Fleischmann’s on the counter and slipped out the apartment door.
Brickhouse was truly a sight to behold. Four stories tall, it was a monument to high-society. I could practically see the social ladder leading to the rooftop. Up we went.
But the strangest thing happened when The Original Badass and I reached the summit. No one rushed to shake our hands. Waiters offered us no champagne. Surrounded by the best and brightest in their suits and cocktail dresses, we were somehow out of place. Clearly, I had overestimated my social standing, and, in my t-shirt and cargo shorts, I didn’t look the part.
We were outsiders yearning for acceptance. I was prepared to perform sexual favors in the bathroom to gain access to these colorful people. Money talks, but when you can afford to rent out an entire floor of Brickhouse Barbecue, sexual currency is worth more than the contents of any wallet.
The Original Badass and I decided on a new course of action; we were going to keep a low profile. So we went straight for the free food.
Next to the pulled pork sandwiches were three stacks of newspaper fleeces and t-shirts. More freebies! I went digging for my size. Maybe if I threw on their colors I could skip the bathroom antics all together.
But before I could slip into something more presentable, I felt a delicate hand on my shoulder. Finally some female attention.
Turns out it was a dude. He asked me if I was going to pay for the clothing. There I was, in a room full of lobster bisque alumni, being propositioned for money. I thought this was an opulent celebration, not some low-brow fundraiser. Sensing my bewilderment, he patted me on the back and told me we could discuss payment in the bathroom.
The Original Badass and I ate our food in silence downstairs.
Brickhouse Barbecue: Brick shit house.
High society had put us in a funk, so it was time to mingle with the common folk at Red Rock Saloon.
When we walked in the door, there was a lot of “yee-hawing” and boot stomping going on. The lively atmosphere almost made up for the strong smell of manure. Across the bar, someone puked into a ten gallon hat.
The Original Badass and I sat down to high-stakes poker at a corner table. The game was all shifty eyes and twitching handlebar mustaches. It wasn’t long before the broncobuster to my right lunged across the table, took hold of another man’s arm and exposed a spring contraption up the hustler’s sleeve designed to inject aces into his hand. The grifter was lucky I’d left my six-shooter at home!
The good people of Red Rock don’t take kindly to card-cheats. They rounded up a posse and lassoed him to the mechanical bull. Then they turned the knob to “Hog Wild.” It was hard to watch.
After the swindler lost consciousness, The Original Badass and I decided it was time to go.
Red Rock Saloon: Draconian shit hole.
Of course, we couldn’t leave until we’d finished our drinks, no easy task with our livers already operating at peak capacity.
The Original Badass never ceases to amaze me. Without hesitation, he reached into his glass, pulled out the ice and threw it on the floor, a technique he called, “Icing Your Drink.” Sheer brilliance. I followed suit. With the cubes out of the way, the chugging was much easier.
The image of the card shark’s limp body flailing all over the bullpen was still very much in our heads as we made our way to the next establishment on The Original Badass’ list: Madhatter.
But before we could get there, The Original Badass’ fondness for civil disobedience and violent thrill-seeking reared its ugly head.
The crazy bastard tried to commandeer the Capitol Pedaler. And he would’ve succeeded to if it wasn’t for the heroics of the pedalers, who went into a desperate, booze-fueled overdrive, leaving The Original Badass stumbling in the dust.
We never made it to Madhatter.
Madhatter: We didn’t go.
We ended up watching reruns of Breaking Bad at his apartment and taking turns puking into a cardboard box that had once contained the televsion.
